


Keeping Secrets

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Reads (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:08:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Aziraphale finds out a secret -- that Crowley does read books -- does he have any more?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76





	Keeping Secrets

Crowley read books. He just hated admitting it in public – that wouldn’t be _cool_. Demons didn’t enjoy the pleasures of literature. That was angel territory. 

Of course, he wasn’t in Hell with the rest of demonkind, where there weren’t a whole lot of books available other than a lot of grimoires, Satanic bibles, and about a million or so copies of Beezlebub’s all-time favorite read, _The Lord of the Flies_.

No, he dwelled on Earth, where he had never worked terribly hard during the past six millennia. He’d had plenty of leisure time to fill, and there were only so many hours or days or weeks that could be spent drinking, sleeping, driving too fast, and streaming episodes of _Escape to the Country_. 

So once in a while, he read books.

Which required visiting bookshops. Yes, there were libraries – but the overdue fines drove him nuts (he once tried to return a book one hundred and six years after checking it out), so he stuck to buying the darn things.

Which meant being _inside_ bookshops. A certain angel on Earth also liked to frequent bookshops, always in search of more tomes to add to his insanely huge collection, and it was sort of inevitable that one day, despite his best efforts to avoid Aziraphale’s favorite places, they would bump into each other.

_“Crowley?”_

_Oh, Hell_. He glanced up from the book he’d been perusing. “Er…um…Aziraphale.”

His friend stood in the narrow aisle, gaping at him. “You’re reading!”

“That’s what one generally does with a book.” _Play it cool_.

Aziraphale came up close to peer at the title. “ _The Year’s Best Horror Fiction_. Well, it’s not exactly Shakespeare, but at least you’re looking at a _book_.”

“I read books, Angel.”

“Really? Because you told me on more than one occasion that you most expressly did _not_ read books.”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m a demon. I lied.” He opted to add a nonchalant wave of the hand to the shrug. “It’s what I do.”

Aziraphale crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “Not to _me_ , you don’t.” Then his gaze fell on the wire shopping basket at Crowley’s feet. “Good heavens, are those yours, too?”

_Disavow all knowledge_. “Nah, somebody else must have left it there.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale knelt down to retrieve the three books from the basket before Crowley could miracle them away. 

_Damn_.

The angel stood up, triumphantly holding the first book in front of Crowley’s face. “ _The Care and Feeding of Bromeliads_.”

“Coincidence. Lots of houseplant fanciers in London.”

Aziraphale held up the second book. “ _The Snake: A Symbolic History_.”

“And, er, lots of herpetology fanciers—“

The third book appeared in front of his face. “ _Angels and Demons_.”

“Uh…erm…huh. Don’t know how _that_ got in there.”

“Honestly. My dear fellow, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Crowley straightened from his habitual slouch. “I am _not_ embarrassed. I am _never_ embarrassed.”

“Fine.” Aziraphale smiled. “Then you won’t mind chatting with me over tea and biscuits about your favorite books.”

_Oh yes I will_. Crowley sighed. “That’s not happening.”

“Why ever not? I think it’s delightful that we have something to share.”

“Oh, right – as if six thousand years of being on Earth together isn’t enough? Books are _your_ thing, Angel. They’re just a casual hobby for me. You’ll be disappointed if I don’t wax lyrical over the finer points of a Browning sonnet or a Montaigne essay or the delicate, luminous prose of some tedious Booker prize winner or—“ He broke off, belatedly realizing that he had revealed far too much about his knowledge of literature.

_Too late_.

Aziraphale positively beamed at him, and even bounced on his heels. “You _do_ love books! Oh, this is marvelous. Hurry up and buy those so we can go back to the shop and _talk_.”

“Right. Talk.” He raised his arm, fist clenched. “ _Yay_.”

Then Crowley bowed to the inevitable, picked up his basket of books, and went to pay. 

He was so _not cool_ anymore.

Two hours later, after eight cups of tea and two boxes of chocolate biscuits with vanilla icing, Crowley felt an overwhelming urge to rip the next book he laid eyes on into unrecognizable shreds.

“Well, that chat was quite _nice_.” Aziraphale got up from the sofa to put away the tea things. 

Two hours. _Two solid hours_ was not a _chat_. 

Though mostly it had been the angel talking while he nodded a lot and made little _hm_ and _um_ noises at appropriate intervals, and added an occasional _Yes, I agree_ whenever Aziraphale paused to raise an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

Mostly Crowley hadn’t actually listened at all, though he vaguely recalled some talk about Victorian romantic poets, a lengthy monologue on the merits of _Tristram Shandy_ (which he had never read), a bit of fulsome praise over the _Sherlock Holmes_ stories (which he had), and a minor digression into whether anything written after 1900 was even worth bothering about.

“Well,” he remembered saying in answer to that point, “I think _The Lord of the Flies_ is pretty good.”

Which caused Aziraphale to shake his head sadly before moving on to a thorough examination of _Euripides vs Sophocles: Who was the better dramatist and why?_

Crowley thought Aeschylus could write rings around them both.

Oh, well.

Aziraphale finished putting things away and returned to the sofa. Crowley cast him a hopeful look. “We’re done _chatting_ about books now, right?”

“Yes, I think you’ve suffered enough.”

“Suffered?” He had tried very hard not to show how disinterested he’d been. 

Aziraphale gave his shoulder a light pat. “I do realize this isn’t something you especially enjoyed. Thank you, though, for indulging me. You don’t have to ever do it again.”

“I don’t?” Now he felt horribly guilt-ridden. “But Angel, _you_ were having fun – I don’t want to spoil your fun.”

“True, it was quite a treat. But I do think it’s better if we share something we _both_ enjoy.”

Crowley raised a hopeful eyebrow. “Like, say, drinking?”

“Perhaps. Though I am wondering, now that I know about your reading habit, if there isn’t anything _else_ you’ve been keeping secret from me?”

The way Aziraphale raised both eyebrows and added a bit of pursed-lip action at the end of his question gave Crowley pause. 

_He knows._

Crowley swallowed. _Of course he knows_. Angels can _sense_ love. He must have known for eons. “Maybe.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Taken up oil painting on the side, have you? Or learned how to play the accordion?”

Crowley laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” _He knows, and he knows that I know, and he’s playing it light and easy._

“I’m glad to hear it.” Somehow Aziraphale had slowly, gradually shifted closer to him. “Nothing else you want to unburden yourself of, then, is there?” 

“Possibly.” _Play it lightly and easily back. It will all be fine_. “I may have one more secret up my sleeve.” 

Somehow, Aziraphale’s gaze lingered on Crowley’s face just a little too long. “And here I thought putting things up one’s sleeve was _my_ department. Taken up stage magic, have you?”

“Figure of speech, Angel. There may be magic involved, though.”

Somehow, Aziraphale’s hand strayed onto Crowley’s thigh and stayed there. “Tell me, then.”

Crowley put his hand on top of the angel’s. “It’s hardly a secret if you already know.”

“I suppose it isn’t. And I suppose it’s true that I can read you like a book.” And then, just like that – lightly and easily – Aziraphale leaned in to kiss him.

_Why had he ever kept anything secret…_ Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale to pull him even closer as his lips touched heaven. 

They caressed each other tenderly as the kiss lengthened, a touch Crowley never wanted to end. He desired to dwell in an angel’s heart forever, and he wanted to entwine their souls together.

“I love you,” he breathed as their mouths parted. _Magical indeed_.

Aziraphale rested his head on his chest as if that were the lightest and easiest act in the world, yet it electrified every fiber of Crowley’s being. He felt as if he had soared into the heavens and might not ever come back to Earth.

“No more secrets,” Aziraphale replied. “I happen to love you, too.”

Crowley stroked his fingers through the angel’s soft hair. “Wish you’d caught me buying books a long time ago.”

“I wish we hadn’t _needed_ secrets.”

“That, too.” He hadn’t truly kept anything from Aziraphale all these centuries – he only kept his love hidden from Heaven. And from Hell.

Aziraphale caressed his chest in slow, gentle circles, sending more quivers through Crowley’s body. “I _did_ enjoy our talk about books, you know. Perhaps we can continue after all.” He paused. “If you like.”

“If it always ends _this_ way, I wouldn’t mind.” Crowley tilted Aziraphale’s chin up for another long kiss, lingering over the taste of him, capturing him fully with a stronger need. Not everything had to be light and easy. 

Aziraphale responded with equal fervor. When the kiss ended, he let out a deep sigh. “Apparently, you’ve read the Romantics.” He nestled back down. 

“One or two. Though there are some things I can think up all on my own.” _Such as loving an angel_. Nothing he’d ever read had covered _that_ possibility. “You know, I’ll bet _our_ story would make a good book.”

Aziraphale tightened his embrace. “I would read it.” He raised his head briefly to place a kiss on Crowley’s cheek. “Though only if it had a happy ending.”

“Oh, it would, Angel.” He smiled. “And it always will.”

Though in truth, it couldn’t be a happy _ending_ – it could only be the endless continuation of a long-ago beginning – and it could only ever be a neverending joy. 


End file.
